


ciphering the code

by wrennette



Series: Trashpile: A Compendium of Unfinished Fics [25]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Blanket Permission, Gen, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:57:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23677771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennette/pseuds/wrennette
Summary: He awoke floating, and panicked.
Series: Trashpile: A Compendium of Unfinished Fics [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/712446
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	ciphering the code

**Author's Note:**

> i've been going through my drive poking at old works to see if any of them will revive. alas, this one's long since been left for dead. have a snippet of ezra as bourne.

He awoke floating, and panicked.

He awoke gasping.

He awoke swaddled in soft sheets and heavy blankets, and slowly stirred.

"Hush, shush," a soft female voice urged, and he blinked the sand from his heavy eyes. "Easy darling boy," she murmured, petting his forehead, and he blinked again, his tongue swollen in his dry mouth. "Rest now," she urged. "Let Mother take care of you." 

"Mother?" He tried to say, but it came out an indistinguishable croak.

"Oh Ezra," the pretty blonde woman sighed, and he shrank in shame. His name was Ezra. "The doctor said this might happen," Mother said, cradling his head and letting him sip at a glass of water. "There was an explosion dear one, do you remember? The yacht's engine went, and you, you took a nasty knock on the head. We were afraid you had drowned at first, and you've been asleep for days, while the swelling in your head went down. Oh, Ezra, you must remember something?" He shook his head, hating to disappoint her. Her face took on a disappointed moue, and she sighed again. "I'll call the doctor again. This will certainly put a crimp in Georg's schedule, he's already been so terribly inconvenienced by the explosion, I just don't know what to say."

"Georg?" Ezra asked confusedly, and Mother sighed again. 

"My husband," Mother said. "Your step-father, Georg Volkovich. He's been very good to us Ezra, and I do dislike inconveniencing him so." 

Ezra hung his head, both to avoid her piercing jade gaze and to try and quiet the ringing in his ears and the roiling of his stomach. Mother sighed, then swept from the room. A somewhat rotund fellow bustled in a while later, and Ezra found himself analyzing his motions, his accent. A Greek speaker. A nervous man. A man who was cowed. Ezra's head throbbed with the analysis, then spiked with pain as jumbled memories flashed behind his eyelids.

Mother ushered Ezra onto a private plane, and found himself analyzing access points, weaknesses. He caught himself at security checkpoints, working out how to slip through without being screened. There was something wrong with him. Mother was distant, and there was something cold in her eyes that gave him pause. He didn't see his stepfather. He woke at night in silent paralysis, nightmares of running, of shooting, of a man with dark eyes and a pretty woman curled on his chest. His head ached.

In Luxembourg, seven months after he woke with no memory, Ezra stood and stared at a discrete bank facade. He had never been here before. He was certain he had never been here before. But it was so familiar. He slipped inside, and the man greeted him as Mr. Simpson. He opened his safe deposit box. Money, Euros and American Dollars. But the box wasn't right. There was something off. He felt along the bottom, and keen fingers triggered a hidden latch. 

A small gun, spare five-shot magazines, a handful of papers, a small bound book, a pair of cell phones, and a half dozen passports. American. French. Irish. Russian. Australian. He looked at each, and from each his picture stared back from beneath a different name, but all him, with slight alterations to his appearance. A wig, colored lenses, hair dye, stubble. But all him nonetheless.

"Who am I?" Ezra asked the silent room, but no one answered. Later that week, he stole a portfolio of small drawings by the hand of Raphael in Basel, and then quietly slipped his Mother's leash. London. In his jumbled memories, he had seen the Eye, and the bound book, although it didn't make much sense, seemed to indicate that he had really been there. He just had to cipher the code he had written it in, recover his memories, and then maybe things would make sense. Mother's way was wrong, he was certain very little, but he _was_ certain of that.

**Author's Note:**

> eventually, amnesiac ezra would cross paths with the others, who would also be part of this mysterious assassination organization, and they'd start piecing things together. i never got that far unfortunately. 
> 
> i'm @wrennette on tumblr, pillowfort and dreamwidth, feel free to come say hi.


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